


Perita Manus, Mens Exculta

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [10]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec learns about potions, Competent Alec Lightwood, Domestic Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Insecure Magnus Bane, M/M, Magnus and Alec love each other so much, Magnus' Apothecary, Magnus' past relationships were SHIT, With just a small hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 18:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: He’s content to simply lounge there, at the edge of his own apothecary, and watch as his beloved putters around as if he belongs right at the epicenter of Magnus’ very being. Alec meticulously grinds up werewolf claws and ginseng root, measuring out amounts with an expression of concentration that is equal part amusing and endearing.It occurs to Magnus, abruptly and almost painfully with its full weight, that Alec would have made a stunning warlock.





	Perita Manus, Mens Exculta

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not dead, I promise. School is kicking my ass and season 3B is royally pissing me off. BUT! I promise that I am (slowly but surely) working on the next major installment of the Dux Bellorum series. Even if it ends up being after the show's finale, I won't be jumping ship any time soon, my dears. So stick with me.
> 
> That being said, here is some much-needed non-S3B compliant fluff.
> 
> Title is Latin and translates to "skilled hand, cultivated mind"

The first time it ever happens, Magnus doesn’t quite know how to react.

It’s early in their relationship, mere weeks after their first date at the Hunter’s Moon, and they’re lounging on Magnus’ couch after having just returned from an impromptu day trip to Amsterdam. His toes are pinched in his shoes after being on his feet all day, and his hair is still damp from where he and Alexander got caught up in a surprise thunderstorm, but his stomach is pleasantly full from the _stamppot_ they ate for dinner, and his head is comfortably light from the _jenever_ they had indulged in.

He’s sprawled out on the cushions in exactly the same spot he collapsed in once they portaled back, head propped on the armrest and one leg flopped over the side with his foot resting on the floor. His other leg is pulled up onto the couch, his shoe nestled carefully against the side of Alec’s knee. It’s all a perfectly calculated risk, just a simple touch in order to gauge the situation, a tentative little hopefulness that Magnus can’t help but cling to. He wants to draw so much closer, wants to curl up right alongside the long, delicious line of the shadowhunter’s body, wants to tuck his head under the younger man’s chin and let strong arms wrap around him. Or maybe the other way around, with Alexander’s messy hair tickling his neck and wonderfully corded muscle smooth underneath his fingers.

Magnus is accustomed to _wanting_. But it’s been _centuries_ since he has yearned for such simple little touches. He doesn’t quite know what Alexander has done to so thoroughly ruin him. And he doesn’t quite care.

But his darling Alexander is somehow an odd contradiction of courageous and skittish; equal parts desperately bold and painfully hesitant in the face of their relationship. Admittedly, Magnus himself isn’t far behind. So while Magnus may want nothing more than to tangle their fingers and arms and legs into some semblance of an embrace on the couch – and while Alec may possibly want such things as well – they are both relegated to this cautious almost-touch that never seems to be enough.

Of course, Alexander manages to surprise him. It’s just a simple little thing, really, but the younger man lets his knee press more firmly against Magnus’ foot. A reassurance, of some sort, that neither of them is going to be so easily scared off. For all that the physical aspects of their relationship seem to evolve in tiny baby steps, conversation flows easily; along the course of the night, they recline in each other’s presence and talk themselves almost breathless. And if Alexander’s hand eventually settles achingly carefully over Magnus’ ankle, rubbing soothingly over the delicate bones, well, Magnus may only hyper-fixate on the feeling just the most minuscule amount.

And then, _of course_ , some client has to shatter their peace.

Absolutely _typical_.

Between one of Magnus’ completely accurate mockeries of a Clave representative and Alec’s resulting (and maybe alcohol-induced) laughter, a fire message slips past his wards and flings itself right into Magnus’ personal space. He catches it easily, regardless of the Dutch gin that is still swimming in his bloodstream, and flicks it open with perhaps more aggrieved annoyance that it rightfully deserves. But the damned message had the audacity to interrupt his precious few hours of _Alexander Time_ , and such an offense is punishable by extremely prejudiced irritation.

The message is from a warlock acquaintance of his that is currently bunkered down somewhere in the Australian outback. A particularly nervous fellow who is skittish enough to make Alexander seem outright flamboyant in comparison; Leon is scared of absolutely everything, except for the multitude of animals that want to kill him just outside his own home. The warlock hardly ever even leaves his house, and when he does it’s typically only to collect some scorpion tails or dingo teeth for his ongoing potion experiments. Magnus hasn’t even heard from him in over sixty years, but that in and of itself is not wholly unusual amongst immortals.

And here Leon is, sending oddly worded requests for a purification potion that reads more like some half-decoded cipher than any actual language Magnus has ever seen. The poor old fool is probably going half-mad from his self-imposed exile. Magnus has heard far too many horror stories of warlocks abandoning human society for hundreds of years, only to inevitably go insane from the loneliness. It’s not an enviable process.

Pity, more than anything, has Magnus huffing out an aggrieved but resigned sigh. All he wants is to remain exactly where he is, Alec’s solid weight carefully pressing against his foot and delicate archer’s fingers skimming over his ankle bones. The callouses are a wondrous combination of soothing and exciting, and Magnus wants to know what those fingers would feel like trailing over other parts of his body.

A gentle tap of Alec’s thumb causes Magnus to dutifully look up at the shadowhunter. The boy’s eyes are warm and still a little glassy from the alcohol they had imbibed. His hair is damp and tousled; Magnus wishes that it was from them sharing a shower, but really it’s only from the surprise thunderstorm that had intervened on their date. His lips are slightly parted, still red and wet from the strawberries they had shared for dessert. Magnus _really_ wants to pull him close and kiss him senseless.

Instead, he groans and rolls to his feet, tossing the fire message aside so that it can burn away into nothingness beside him. It leaves specks of ash on one of his favorite antique rugs, and he disparages his peoples’ tendency to stay stuck in the past; if only they would finally just switch over to texting.

“Sorry, darling,” he apologizes with what could possibly be called a pout. “Duty calls. Someone always needs a potion.”

He intends to leave it at that – knowing from previous relationships just how boring and tiresome the minutiae of his duties can be – and he assures Alexander that the shadowhunter is free to do as he pleases to occupy himself. The potion in question shouldn’t take too terribly long, and Magnus is clinging to the hope that he can wrap things up quickly and return to his enviably comfortable position on the couch.

Magnus expects Alexander to stay out in the living room; for all that he’s reaffirmed that Alec can wander wherever he pleases within the loft, the nephilim has always been quite reluctant to make good on the opportunity. Perhaps, as he is so wont to do, Alexander will gravitate towards the bookshelves. He likes to run his fingers over the leather-bound spines, and Magnus has noticed that he favors the non-fiction tomes over anything. The curious shadowhunter has been steadily working through a particularly thick textbook on history, written from the perspective of downworlders as opposed to the no doubt biased memories of the Clave. There’s a wonderful sort of thrill that drips down Magnus’ spine whenever he sees Alec poised thoughtfully in front of a bookcase, a sort of reverent and awed look always painting his features in a gentle light.

So it’s to a healthy amount of surprise that, partway through gathering the handful of ingredients required, Magnus glances up and instead sees the nephilim leaning against the threshold of the apothecary. The younger man has never been inside Magnus’ inner sanctum before, due more to a lack of necessity rather than any sort of reluctance, and his beautiful hazel eyes are preoccupied with flicking around to try and catch every last hint of bottled dragon tongue or pickled goblin eyes. His posture is relaxed, more of a slouch than Magnus has ever had the privilege to witness from the soldier, and his expression is soft as his attention inevitably drifts back to the warlock.

Magnus doesn’t even know what to do with it. His mouth is suddenly dry and his heart equal parts light and heavy. His pulse is racing and his palms are sweating and Magnus doesn’t know _why_ his body’s nervous system has decided to kick into overdrive. The air around him is suffocating, he can hardly even breathe through it, and all he can think about is how _Camille_ used to storm into his apothecary like she owned the place, scoffing at his attempts to formulate and invent new concoctions, snipping at the very idea of him putting any amount of interest into something that wasn’t centered around _her_ , even going so far as to purposefully sabotage or ruin some of his rarest and most valuable ingredients. She wasn’t the first, nor the last, to ridicule him for this part of himself.

He sincerely believes – hopes? – that Alexander isn’t like _that_ , isn’t going to rush into his life and trample every little enjoyment that he holds onto for himself. But Magnus remembers the few shadowhunters who have been witness to his whole process of mixing potions; he knows the feel of their distrusting glares and their sneering scoffs. He knows what it’s like to bear the weight of their disgust.

It doesn’t feel like _this_. Having Alec’s eyes trained on him is more akin to the sunshine sinking into his skin, a source of light that is warm and welcome. His gaze is focused, a softer rendition of that razor-sharp concentration that directs him out in the field. Alexander has always had a one-track kind of mind, the sort to fixate on some particular mission or problem or idea and use the sheer force of his overthinking to wear it down into oblivion. Typically, Magnus finds the tendency to be anywhere between utterly frustrating to impossibly endearing; but with the weight of his regard focused entirely on _Magnus_ , in a place where Magnus is quite possibly most _himself_ , unhindered by the expectations and judgments of the world, it’s almost too much to bear.

“You don’t have to keep me company, Alexander,” he hazards, achingly cautious even as he’s plastering on his best showman smile. It’s like dipping his toes into some unfathomable waters, not knowing if it will be freezing cold or scalding hot, but hoping – _desperately_ – that it will simply be _warm_.

The tentative comment seems to break something within Alec, and before Magnus can even comprehend the change, the young man is snapping back into himself. All at once, the gentle slouch of his shoulders hitches into a painfully straight back, the sharp angle of his shoulders perfectly squared. His hands are shoved behind himself, no doubt clutching at each other in an attempt to grab at something solid. Hazel eyes, once so attentively trained on Magnus, turn away, his head dipping down. A searing blush inches all the way up his neck to settle on his cheeks, even as he’s taking several precise steps away from the open door of the apothecary.

Within the empty quiet between one heartbeat and the next, Magnus’ darling Alexander has disappeared and in his place stands a Clave soldier who looks suspiciously like a chastised boy, caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

“I-I’m sorry,” Alec hurriedly forces out, no longer meeting Magnus’ eye but instead looking somewhere over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have- I didn’t think-” the words stumble over themselves in their haste to escape, and Magnus’ heart burns for each one. He drags in a deep breath and lets it out in a burst. “This is your space and I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll just go- I’ll be out in the living room,” the younger man rambles rapid-fire, before backing away.

Coldness seeps in where Alexander’s warmth once stood, and some deeply rooted fear claws up Magnus’ throat. “Wait!” The word is torn from him without thought, a visceral need driving the frantic edge of it right into his own heart. Inanely, he reaches a hand up, as if he can somehow reach Alexander across the distance that separates them. It feels childish, and Magnus loathes himself for it. He hurriedly brings his hand back down before Alec can turn around.

When Alec does face Magnus again, his eyes are wide and searching, his hands folded in front of himself where he’s twisting his fingers and digging his nails into the delicate skin. He looks as confused and lost as Magnus feels.

Not for the first time – nor, Magnus fears, for the last – it seems there has been some disconnect between their expectations of the world. They’re both so different, but beyond that they’re both so scared of making a misstep, of accidentally offending or hurting the other, that they often end up holding themselves back. It’s like some impossibly tragic self-fulfilling prophecy, a perpetuating cycle of not wanting to ruin their relationship and always teetering right on the edge of an anticipated fall.

The problem, Magnus thinks, is that they both have a tendency to _assume_ what the other will feel. Alec tries to draw upon his – admittedly limited – understanding of the Clave’s oppression, tries so valiantly hard to turn against his people’s heritage that Magnus fears he sometimes turns against _himself_. And Magnus all too often bases his assumptions off of how previous relationships have gone, always drawing upon his horrid experiences with any number of the cruel lovers he’s had in the past. It’s overwhelmingly unfair to the both of them, and to the budding potential of their relationship in and of itself.

 _Relationships take effort_ , they like to parrot back and forth to each other. It’s little moments like these that Magnus knows will evolve into something profound, something significant in the course of their lives together. So he forces himself to breathe and he digs deep into himself to find the insecurities that exist in the cavern of his heart. And he smothers them, at least for now, at least long enough to give Alec this opportunity.

“You can stay,” Magnus suggests. The _‘I want you to stay’_ goes unspoken, but it’s still loud in the quiet between them. He flails a hand out, smoothly morphing it into a gesture that has an armchair dragging across the floor and stopping just in front of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat, darling? I shouldn’t take too long.” The suggestion lingers, and all Magnus can do is pray to the gods above that Alec accepts it.

He doesn’t have to worry for long, because in the next second Alexander’s face is lighting up like he’s a kid in a candy store. Except the candy in this situation is shelves of volatile magical ingredients. Or maybe it’s Magnus himself. But the hesitant grin that Alec offers him is something that Magnus has only ever seen directed towards _him_ , and it inspires a possessive little thrill deep in Magnus’ heart that he’s helpless to resist.

The shadowhunter carefully steps into the apothecary and settles down into the armchair, eyes curiously roving over the odd assemblage of jars and bottles that Magnus has laid out on the desk. Alexander has never really been able to sit still for very long – an unfortunate side effect of all that _infernal shadowhunter energy_ that makes watching movies almost impossible for them – but even as his leg bounces and his fingers fidget restlessly against the arms of the chair, his gaze never once wavers from its focus on Magnus. It skitters over his face, down his arms, lingering on where his hands flit over ingredients and his mortar and pestle and the heavy cauldron set off to the side.

Magnus has far been accustomed to an audience, in nearly all aspects of his life: his magic, his leadership role, his relationships, his clubs, his sex life. It even follows him home, into his loft whenever he allows clients in, has even crept into his own apothecary, this little corner of existence that is all his own. Usually, it’s something he thrives off of, something that pulls deep in his core and drags out his best showmanship. But here, now, with Alexander, it feels different. More intimate. There’s no need for all the bells and whistles, the dramatic flaring of magic or the over-the-top waving of his hands; such behaviors have only ever been for the benefit of his own reputation, rather than for the integrity of the magic itself.

Alec doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t anticipate any sweeping gestures of magic, none of the sparks or twirls, not the coy smile and the mysterious warlock behind it all. He isn’t here for that, for some service or necessity or demand. He’s here for _Magnus_ ; for the exacting twist of his fingers as he grinds dried leaves in the mortar, for the soothing stirring of the cauldron as it begins to simmer, for the quiet murmur of Magnus’ words as he weaves ancient spells.

Neither of them says anything beyond Magnus’ whispered spells, just the sound of their breathing, the scrape of the mortar, the tap of Alexander’s fingers on the arms of the chair. They don’t have to say anything, they don’t have to _be_ anything. Alexander doesn’t want anything _from_ Magnus.

So, Magnus gives Alexander what he does want. Just… _himself_.

* * *

It becomes a routine of theirs. Whenever Alexander is over and Magnus has an order or a request to fill, the shadowhunter trails along behind him, following him into the apothecary and nestling into the armchair that has steadily become _Alec’s Armchair_ in Magnus’ mind. Or if Alexander makes his way up to the loft and Magnus is already busy with a potion, Alec will wander in and take a seat, or perhaps he will linger by the threshold and watch from afar.

He is never loud or obtrusive, never drawing attention to himself and taking away from Magnus’ concentration. He doesn’t get in the way of Magnus’ work, instead content to just sit back and watch as the warlock flits about the apothecary. In the past, Magnus has always had to play the role of the _entertainer_ ; he had to talk about some inane thing to keep Camille interested, or he had to add unnecessary flair for some mundane to be amused, or he had to maintain an air of mystery to hide away from the demands of clients.

With Alexander, he doesn’t have to be loud and boisterous and flamboyant. He can be, when he wants, but he can also be quiet and studious and relaxed, murmuring to himself over which ingredient would be best or how to properly prepare them. Sometimes, he’ll catch himself bobbing in place, dancing along to some song that’s stuck in his head or to whatever beat that Alec’s fidgeting fingers and bouncing leg offer him. With anyone else, he would stop and lock his muscles painfully still; his darling angel, however, just gives him a lopsided little grin, and Magnus finds himself dancing perhaps a bit more often.

It’s an easy routine to follow, something which they both settle into with a sort of initial hesitance that quickly fades away into familiarity. In Magnus’ apothecary, there are no rules or regulations or expectations for each other. No outside shadowhunters or the Clave breathing down Alexander’s back, no previous experiences intruding upon Magnus’ peace of mind. Just them, just Magnus and Alec, in this gentle quietness that soothes frayed nerves and jagged edges.

Eventually, inevitably, things change.

Magnus is working on a relatively simple potion – a sleeping draught, to help a client of his that suffers from chronic insomnia – and it is, ironically enough, nearing three in the morning. He hadn’t intended on staying up quite so late, but Alec is out on a patrol and Magnus doesn’t enjoy the thought of sinking into a bed that is completely devoid of his cuddly shadowhunter body pillow. More and more, he’s found himself increasingly reluctant to have his king-sized bed all to his lonesome self.

His hope is to finish the mixing of the potion and then to collapse, maybe on his couch or simply in his desk chair (it wouldn’t be the first time); a short nap will give the concoction enough time to simmer, and will have the added benefit of giving Magnus an excuse to not sleep in his bed.

There’s a shimmer of awareness right at the edge of his wards; the magic willingly folds the new occupant into its embrace with the caress of a lover. _Alexander_. Even his magic could recognize the boy from afar. Warmth grows in the pit of Magnus’ stomach and some of the tension in his shoulders bleeds away, even before the shadowhunter reaches the door, but it just as quickly morphs into hints of concern.

Alec doesn’t often stay at the loft after late-night patrols, both because he is so often exhausted from the day and also because he’s still unreasonably worried about waking Magnus up. Not that Alec’s concern is warranted, given that Magnus can typically sleep through just about anything and that Magnus hardly manages to sleep when Alec isn’t there anyway. But, even with such assurances, his stubborn nephilim only typically drags himself to the loft if it’s been a particularly harrowing night.

It isn’t a disaster, Magnus has to remind himself. If it were, then Alec would have called earlier, would have requested help or comfort or support of some form. Instead, Alec had merely sent his customary – and very much _mandatory_ , in both of their minds – confirmation text that the patrol had ended with no major injuries and Alec had returned to the Institute safely.

Magnus doesn’t have long to ruminate on his worries before he hears the familiar sound of the door opening and closing, the quiet clatter as Alec hangs up his weapons – always religiously meticulous, even when the boy is exhausted and half-dead on his feet – and the ensuing measured paces of his steps. Quiet and muffled, so that Magnus knows that he’s removed his boots and he’s walking around in socked feet.

Eventually, the shadowhunter shuffles into the apothecary with a distinct lethargy that burns Magnus’ heart. He glances up in time to watch Alec collapse gracelessly into his armchair. The younger man huffs out a deep sigh and tilts his head back, giving Magnus the opportunity to let his gaze rove over his angel’s features. He’s still relatively fresh from a shower, hair curly and damp and windswept; he must have run all the way from the Institute. There’s a cut right above his eyebrow, already cleaned and mostly healed, but it must have been nasty at one point.

For all intents and purposes, Alec appears fine – physically, at least – but Magnus has to double check. “Did you apply an _iratze_?” he asks, quiet so as not to completely disturb the peace. Alec doesn’t say anything, but Magnus receives a single curt nod for his efforts. “Do you want to go to bed, darling?”

This time, he gets a shake of Alec’s head, before the shadowhunter lets his head roll until his cheek is cushioned on the back of the chair. His eyes blink open, eyelids heavy from exhaustion but the beautiful hazel irises are still clear and focused when his attention settles pointedly on Magnus’ hands.

A nonverbal sort of night, then. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but Magnus is infinitely glad that he’s awake for this; if not, then Alec wouldn’t have dared to wake him, and then his boyfriend would have been left to deal with whatever holdover from his day has chased him here. There isn’t much that Magnus can do for his angel, not until Alec is willing to talk about everything, but he can do _this._ Can provide Alec with this familiarity and this stability that they have both grown accustomed to.

So he settles into the flow of his work with an ease that belies the centuries since he first learned how to grind up _shax_ mandibles. He lets the quiet drift over them like a tide; and he hopes that they are not washed away like the sands along the shore. His precious Alexander is silent, still, stagnated in a way that the shadowhunter _never_ is. It’s unsettling in a manner that makes Magnus’ skin crawl. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but when his gaze flickers up to rake over the boy, it’s almost like Alec isn’t even _there_. He’s curled up impossibly tight on the armchair, contorted in a position that someone of his height and build shouldn’t feasibly be capable of maintaining. It makes him look young and lost, even as the carefully blank expression and the flat deadness of his eyes inspires the exact opposite effect.

More than anything, Magnus wishes that there was some potion he could make, some spell he could perform, some way he could draw Alec back out of that worrisome shell. But he can’t, regardless of the yearning that burns away in his chest that demands he pull the younger man into his arms. He can’t – he _won’t_ – violate Alec’s silent demand for space and silence; not until Alec gives him some sign, some confirmation that Magnus is allowed to touch. Whenever Alexander gets into one of these moods, he often just wants to linger at the edges of someone’s space with minimal interaction; just enough to reaffirm that he isn’t alone, that there’s someone there for him, that he can reach out whenever he’s ready.

Although it hurts more than it should that Magnus cannot simply _hold_ his boyfriend, he understands that people need different things. Who is Magnus to try and deny Alec his own coping mechanisms? Especially now that he’s finally managed to begin weaning his darling Alexander off of his horrid habit of beating himself up in some misguided sense of retribution. It’s an absolute blessing that Alexander has allowed himself to seek Magnus’ presence out. Out of all the various ways in which the night could have ended, Magnus sees this as one of the best outcomes. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the worst-case scenarios that rattle around in the back of his head. Alexander is here, and he is safe. That is all Magnus has ever asked for.

He’s emptying the last of his preserved sylvan bark – he’ll have to send a request to gather more from the Fey Realm – into his mortar when Alexander’s achingly soft voice finally breaks the quiet. Nothing more than a hoarse whisper, lacking in inflection so that his tone is flat and bland. Magnus doesn’t take it to heart; he understands that it isn’t indicative of Alec feeling _nothing_ , but rather that the shadowhunter is feeling _too much_.

“What is that?” he mumbles, his own innate curiosity and need to know winning out over his compulsive silence.

Magnus smothers the relieved grin that curls at the edges of his lips and peeks up at Alexander from under his eyelashes. The nephilim’s legs are pulled up onto the armchair, his arms wrapped tightly around them and his chin resting on his knees. His gaze is still fixed unerringly on Magnus’ hands, a focus that is sharpened by desperation and softened by the shimmer of tears in his eyes. Alec somehow looks a contradiction of impossibly young and impossibly old.

“Dried sylvan bark, darling,” he answers, forcing his tone to stay soothing and quiet. “Carved from a silver blood tree in the Fey Realm,” he continues his explanation, knowing that the information will give Alec’s mind something to latch onto, give him something to pull himself out of his own head. “The bark has special properties that, when simmered in a concoction of kava root and St. John’s wort, can induce near immediate sleep.”

Magnus stops himself before he begins rambling, knowing just how easily he can fall into his _scholar_ mode when someone shows even the slightest hint of interest in his work. For all that he loves his own research, he understands how exhausting it can be to listen to him prattle on. Camille used to scoff whenever he got like this, and far too many of his previous lovers gave him bleary-eyed stares of boredom. Alexander’s nerves are already fraught; Magnus doesn’t want to risk making him more frustrated or upset with the world.

“You used that for a poison,” Alec comments hesitantly, as if afraid of getting it wrong, and Magnus abruptly stills. “It’s the same bark you used for the poison that Gunter needed. How can it be used for both a poison and a sleeping draught?”

He’s helpless to resist the draw that is a curious and astute Alexander Lightwood, and Magnus finds himself glancing up at the younger man with what must certainly be an inordinately fond expression. Magnus remembers the exact poison Alec is referring to, from nearly two months prior. He doesn’t know how _Alec_ remembers it, how he could possibly recognize an ingredient from so long ago, how he could have been paying attention enough to connect two dots that most warlocks wouldn’t even bother to see. It makes his heart warm and his eyes sting, because he can’t recall someone else ever taking such interest in his own life, just for the sake of curiosity, just for the simple reason that it’s something _Magnus_ loves.

There’s a tingle in his eyes that he would have once loathed with every fiber of his being. Now he feels it and sees the resulting awe that it inspires in Alec’s gaze. His glamor has dropped, all but obliterated by the weight of his angel’s regard. It should be terrifying, to be so torn open, exposed, _vulnerable_ ; particularly _here_ , in his apothecary, where he is worn down to the very core of his being. But it isn’t terrifying, not in the slightest. It’s liberating, it’s cathartic, it’s beautiful. Because it’s with _Alexander_.

He grins at the gentle tilt of Alec’s head, the curiosity that is brightening his eyes and carefully drawing him back out of his shell, the scrunch of his nose and the twist of his lips as he tries to puzzle through the overly complex interrelations of ingredients in a magical potion.

“Oh, my inquisitive angel,” Magnus hums delightedly, “you always do ask the best questions.”

And then Magnus is launching into a whole academic _lecture_ about the mutability of sylvan bark and its unique capacity to take on the properties of whatever it’s brewed with. If the mixture is composed of poisonous ingredients, then the bark itself will become poisonous; but if the concoction is for healing or sleeping or what have you, then that’s what the bark will become. It’s all a bit convoluted, and not even the warlock community fully understands how the interplay of chemistry and magic allows sylvan bark to have such capabilities, and Magnus is rambling a mile a minute and using language that would be better suited for one of his five-hundred-page books on magical theory. There’s absolutely no doubt that Alexander understands _maybe_ twenty percent of the entire thing.

But eventually Magnus catches himself and snaps his mouth shut. Nobody likes a long-winded warlock; that’s somewhat of a universal constant, as far as Magnus understands it. And yet, when he glances up at his shadowhunter, the boy isn’t sleeping or yawning or portraying some caricature of utter boredom, just waiting in annoyance for Magnus to shut up already. He’s sitting upright, no longer curled up into a ball, with one leg planted firmly on the ground and the other crossing over his knee. His chin is propped up by his hand and he does look tired – _exhausted_ , even – but his beautiful hazel eyes are shining.

Gone is the deadened, blank-faced expression that had troubled Magnus. It’s been steadily bled out and replaced with the utter enthrallment that lights up his eyes. Magnus can breathe again, glad that at least the darkest part of their night has hopefully passed, and he takes a second to wonder. It’s so easy to imagine Alec – his wonderful, ever curious, always learning Alexander – as some mundane college student, if he had ever gotten the chance. He’d be in graduate school by now, perhaps studying law or history or literature. Cooped up in the library, bent over some textbook with his furrowed brows and scrunched up nose. Always trying to understand _more_.

It isn’t an opportunity that Alexander has been afforded, nor one that he’s likely to get in the future. But Magnus likes the innocent little thought. He tucks it away, into a box that unhelpfully holds all of the luxuries that Alec has never been offered. There are many ideas in the box that Magnus has steadily tried to introduce to his dear nephilim (expensive wines and beach resorts and bath bombs), but a mundane education isn’t one of them. He can’t offer Alec a university – though he has _more_ than enough money to buy one – but he can offer Alec _this_. An opportunity to learn something new, a chance to put that gorgeous mind of his to work outside of tactics and politics and law. Something to draw him away from the dark thoughts of patrols and demons and violence that so often cloud his mind.

They spend the rest of the night, and well into the morning, like that. Magnus rambling on about anything and everything in the apothecary to the point where even _Ragnor_ would have grown tired by it all. But not Alexander. The shadowhunter does his best to keep up, and even when he doesn’t fully understand, he makes an effort to ask relevant questions. Magnus can’t remember the last time he had such an exciting conversation about the art of making potions, and certainly never one with a non-warlock.

And when Alexander hesitantly asks if Magnus will teach him more about potions? Well, who is Magnus to deny his angel anything?

* * *

His head is spinning dangerously when he finally stumbles into his loft. There’s always a split-second moment of disorientation after taking a portal, a shift in gravity and equilibrium as his particles reassemble back into the semblance of his existence. It’s only his decades of experience with portals that prevents him from falling flat on his face. Instead, he stumbles, very nearly tripping over his suddenly uncoordinated feet. It feels like his favorite pair of heeled boots are filled with lead, and they drag behind the momentum of his body.

There’s a ringing in his ears, a sharp sound that rattles in his brain. His vision darkens, tunnels, and then blurs before settling into something that vaguely resembles reality. A hand on his arm – grip tight but reassuringly so, not painfully – is the only thing that manages to steady him. _Alexander_ , his mind supplies belatedly. The only person that is allowed to grab him there, the only person that he would feel comfortable noticing the distinct sway as he stands.

Alec’s hand trails up his arm and over his shoulder, before coming to a stop on his back, right between his shoulder blades. The shadowhunter applies pressure, firm enough that Magnus can feel it deep in the marrow of his bones, down his spine. Like there’s molten metal cooling, creating a steel rod that can support him even on his wobbling legs. His angel pushes, more of a firm suggestion than any sort of demand, and it finally kickstarts his legs into moving. With absolutely anyone else, the action would seethe under his skin and burst out in a wave of fury. The indignity of having someone else try to remind his body how to work. But with Alexander, it’s a grounding gesture, something that finally has his head snapping back into focus and has him heading for the apothecary.

There’s the rumble of voices behind him, muffled as if his head is stuffed full of cotton. He recognizes the distinct timbre of Alec’s voice, deep and sharp and resolute, the tone that Magnus lovingly refers to as his official _Head of the Institute_ voice. It’s remarkably effective, Magnus knows; he’s seen it in action at the height of panic and disarray between the hundreds of shadowhunters under the younger man’s command, has seen a few choice orders issued by Alec completely reorganize his forces. Magnus doesn’t think he will _ever_ admit it, but it similarly has him settling back into his own duty, has his focus sharpening until he finally stumbles against his apothecary desk and starts mentally rifling through all of the potential remedies he could make.

A scuffle in the living room behind him lets Magnus know that the others are scrambling to do their own parts. He doesn’t have to turn around and look to know what’s happening. Clary – injured and envenomated by a particularly nasty _drevak_ demon – dangling limply from Jace’s arms until he finally lays her on the couch, Izzy methodically applying pressure to the wound and constantly checking her pulse, Alec issuing out orders as a way to give his distraught siblings something to cling to.

Something for Magnus to latch onto himself. He stands at his desk in the apothecary, knees shaky and threatening to give out, his aching palms the only things holding him up. He can hardly breathe, hardly see straight, hardly manage to sort his thoughts into any sort of order. Magnus needs to make an antivenom for Clary, for the _drevak_ venom that is quickly spreading through her veins. He can hear her pained whimpers from the other room; he knows that she doesn’t have much time.

But he can barely even _think_. He’s expended too much magic and all of his limbs are fatigued and heavy; his eyelids already feel crusted over with the weight of sleep, his thoughts are a jumbled mess of half-conceived potion ingredients that rattle against the inside of his head. He tries to just _think_ already; he’s been making potions for hundreds of years, how can it be so difficult _now_? Toadstool and nymph hair and eye of newt? No, that runs the risk of accelerating the venom. Gnome tears and vampire teeth and dog’s breath? No, no, _no_. Too volatile of a mixture. It wouldn’t stabilize in time to help Clary.

“Magnus,” Alexander calls for him, drawing him out of his head and back into his own body. A hand – warm and calloused and _real_ – settles over his own, giving it a tight squeeze that finally grounds him.

He lifts his head, aching and slow as if he’s moving through some particularly viscous syrup. When he does, his eyes meet Alec’s. Beautiful hazel, sharp and bright and focused in a way that Magnus dazedly realizes his own most likely aren’t. But he manages to narrow in on Alec, manages to draw himself back up to his full height, manages to remember that he has a remedy to brew.

“What do you need?” Alec asks. Simple, to the point, blunt. Easy to understand, easy to latch on to, easy to follow.

The direction kickstarts his brain, and suddenly he’s listing the ingredients out in a slurred stream of consciousness that he’s sure is only half intelligible. He doesn’t have enough magic left to summon ingredients, let alone prepare the potion with anything but the good old-fashioned method of _by hand_ , and he’s worried that he won’t be able to gather everything necessary in such a state.

But it isn’t a concern that he harbors for long, because before he can even finish talking, Alec is moving around his apothecary like a man on a mission. He riffles through shelves and grabs at jars with a succinctness that belies the hours he has spent watching his boyfriend work; if Magnus didn’t know better, he would almost claim that _Alexander_ is the owner of the apothecary.

Within a minute, the shadowhunter is returning to the front of Magnus’ desk and carefully depositing the armful of ingredients he had dutifully sought out. Somewhere floating around in the back of his head there’s a half-formed comment about Alexander and golden retrievers, but he tactfully bites it back in favor of taking stock. He has enough of the ingredients necessary to make an effective antivenom and he painstakingly forces his body into motion, setting up his cauldron while mentally running through all of the steps required to make a concoction of the correct potency.

He feels rattled to his core, an inexplicable exhaustion and coldness that lingers in his bones. It’s been a long time since he’s run so low on magic. He doesn’t have enough to prepare all of the ingredients _and_ simmer the cauldron _and_ imbue the potion with his own magic all at once. It’s not enough and Clary’s life is on the line and his hands are _shaking_.

Until they’re not, until Alec’s long, calloused fingers are wrapping around Magnus’ wrist. Warm, steady, firm. Magnus’ gaze flickers over the little white scars left on Alec’s hand, trail up arms that are just as capable of cuddling as they are strangling, until it finally settles on those hazel eyes that are equal parts loving and reassuring.

“What do you need me to do?” Alec asks, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, as if it hasn’t even occurred to the boy that _the great Magnus Bane_ shouldn’t suddenly need help making a relatively run-of-the-mill antivenom like some sixty-year-old warlock.

But when he meets Alec’s eye, Magnus thinks that maybe it doesn’t really matter anyway. Alexander’s steadfastness, his calm in the eye of the storm, his keen awareness of when to give orders and when to follow them. It eases the frantic nerves that are jumbled up under Magnus’ skin and he finally lets out a heavy breath.

Between one second and the next, Magnus goes from a pointedly peaceful quiet to rattling off instructions. The thistle needs to be ground into a fine powder, the hag’s hair needs to be singed, the sage needs to be chopped. Magnus falls into the familiar rhythm of potion brewing, only this time he’s snapping out succinct orders like some peculiar magical drill sergeant. And Alexander – his darling soldier boy – fits right into place, following all of Magnus’ instructions as if he’s been doing it all his life.

If Magnus were not so whole-heartedly consumed by brewing this antivenom to perfection, he would spare just enough energy and brain power to revel in the ease with which they work together, the synergy that Magnus can almost feel singing between them. The sensation is its own form of magic, its own power that grows in their hearts and their souls; he’s never experienced anything like it. But he promises himself that he’ll ruminate on such soul-deep revelations later, when Clary is not quite on death’s doorstep.

They work nonstop for nearly half an hour before Magnus is finally pouring the finished product into a bowl. It’s a close call; Magnus can tell by the tendrils of black veins that stretch out from the wound on Clary’s stomach, the pale and limp quality of her body, the stoically composed reactions of all three Lightwood siblings as they collectively assist in his application of the concoction. He promptly smears the salve over the wound, and knows that it takes immediate effect when Clary begins having full-body convulsions. This particular demon venom is volatile, and unfortunately the antivenom is almost just as bad.

But they’re out of the red, no longer in a life-or-death panic. The salve will draw out the venom, wicking it from Clary’s veins and gathering it all into a pus-filled sack over top the wound. Not the most charming manner to stay alive, but certainly an effective one; their lives are far too dangerous for _aesthetically pleasing_ survival methods. A few days of mandatory bed rest, and then Clary should make a full recovery.

His whole body slumps once it’s all over and it’s only by the grace of Alexander’s arms around him that prevents Magnus from collapsing to the floor. He doesn’t even try to stop himself from leaning more heavily against his wonderful boyfriend, allowing the shadowhunter to take all of his weight. (Magnus – admittedly – feels a delectable thrill run down his spine when Alexander doesn’t give under the added burden, acting for all the world like Magnus weighs next to nothing and all but carrying him bridal-style.)

Somehow, between the haze of Magnus’ exhausted and magic-drained mind, he finds himself nestled back in his own bed, stripped down to nothing but his briefs and with his head resting comfortably on Alec’s chest. They’re both more than a little gross, covered in day-old sweat and grime and blood, but Magnus doesn’t have nearly enough magic left to simply _snap_ them clean, and he doesn’t have nearly enough energy left to last through even the most perfunctory shower. In light of the situation, he doesn’t even care how dirty the bedsheets get. He’ll magic them clean tomorrow; or, Hell, maybe they’re due for a new set anyway.

Mindlessly, working on an almost primal instinct, he nestles closer to Alexander until they’re pressed flush against each other all down the length of their bodies. His head burrows into the juncture of Alec’s neck and shoulder, and he draws in a deep breath. Alexander mostly smells how he always does after a patrol – the stench of dried sweat and leather, the sour tang of demon ichor that always makes Magnus’ stomach turn – but this time the smells are all overpowered by the cloying scent of crushed herbs. It’s a smell that is so deeply ingrained in Magnus’ mind, and there is a possessive tingle deep in his gut at his darling Alexander smelling like _his apothecary_ , like _himself_.

He grins against Alec’s neck and presses a delicate, chaste little kiss there. Before he finally loses the battle against sleep, he idly entertains the promising notion of Alexander being his gorgeous _assistant_.

It’s a nice thought. And one that Magnus promises to pursue.

* * *

It has quite possibly been one of the longest, most aggravating days in all of Magnus’ many years of existence. Worse than that time he and Ragnor were trapped in the Spiral Labyrinth for a week-long warlock conference. Worse than when he had to spend four days in a Chilean jail cell. Worse than the monotonous sobriety of the years following the banishment of his father from the Earthly realm.

Alright. Admittedly, Magnus is perhaps milking the situation for more than it’s worth, but it’s still a truly miserable sort of day. In an odd turn of events, _Magnus_ was the one who had been forced to drag himself out of the comfort of his bed at the ass-crack of morning, reluctantly untangling himself from Alexander’s octopus hold. Turning away from his adorably sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed boyfriend had been an impossible task, made even more tragically unbearable when the shadowhunter had grumpily reached out for Magnus and whined his name petulantly.

Magnus had only been able to indulge his darling with a single chaste kiss on the forehead before he had been obligated to turn away and prepare himself for the day. A miserable, regrettable day filled with portaling around to make house calls to a slew of unrepentantly whiny and demanding clients who had little to no regard for his own time commitments and all-too-often extended their prescheduled time blocks far beyond an acceptable range.

But, it’s fine. Everything is fine. Magnus is _home_ and his wards are up and that means no unsolicited guests will be running into his loft and invading his personal space. He slumps almost immediately after his portal closes behind him, an undignified posture that he can almost hear the phantom echoes of scandalized Victorian-era elites scoffing at. The thought brings about an exasperated chuckle, but it isn’t enough for him to try and correct the slouch of his shoulders. He unceremoniously kicks off his heeled boots and tosses his jacket onto the back of an unoccupied armchair; usually he’s far more concerned about the treatment of his personal possessions, but he just can’t find it within himself to care at the moment. After all, he can just snap his fingers to tidy everything up later, why worry himself over the details now?

All Magnus wants to do now is pour himself a glass of something stiff and then collapse dramatically onto his couch, preferably with a certain angelic boyfriend who can be easily convinced to give the _best_ foot massages. He sets out to follow through on his plans, striding towards his drink cart and selecting a particularly pleasing scotch to ease the tension from his awful day. Just as he’s taking the first sip of scotch and practically moaning aloud for the instant relief it gives him, he hears a genuinely wonderful sound.

Humming, quiet and gentle in the otherwise silence of the loft. Soft and sweet in the manner that humming is usually rendered, but in a deep timbre that Magnus could recognize anywhere. For a voice that is far more accustomed to barking out orders and succinctly challenging Clave councils, Alexander’s tone is always so remarkably tender when he gives in to the urge to sing or hum.

It’s been happening more frequently lately, Magnus has noticed. Back in the early, painfully tentative days of their relationship, Magnus had understood that there was plenty to Alexander that the world was unaware of, had understood that there were so many facets to him hidden under the masks of loyal Clave soldier and diligent heir. But, even knowing that there was much Magnus _hadn’t_ known, the warlock had certainly not expected for the – _previously_ – repressed and closeted shadowhunter to have a habit of humming.

So imagine Magnus’ surprise when he had initially stumbled upon Alec, barefoot in Magnus’ kitchen and making French toast, all while humming some unknowable song under his breath. That first time, Alec had spun around and flushed a brilliant red at having been caught mid-hum, looking for all the world like he would have preferred the ground to open up and swallow him. But Magnus had simply grinned and not made a big deal of the whole affair, and it had perhaps been his own nonchalance that had given Alec the freedom to continue his little habit.

And continued it had. In the kitchen while Alec was trying out a new recipe, in the shower, in the living room when the two of them dancing, in the middle of the night when Magnus suffered from dark memories and needed something to soothe him. Just a small, fragile sound, a single little indication of Alexander’s effusive happiness.

Magnus allows himself to be lured in by the now wonderfully familiar sound, an irresistible siren call, and he follows the trail that will lead him to his beloved turtledove. He expects to find Alec in the kitchen, or perhaps out on the balcony. But, much to Magnus’ surprise, Alexander’s humming is coming from down the hall. When he peeks his head around the corner, he finds the door to his apothecary open, revealing a flash of a certain shadowhunter as Alec walks around the room.

For all that he should have seen this eventuality coming – between Alexander’s innate curiosity, his analytical mind, his increasingly in-depth questions – Magnus still finds himself pleasantly surprised as he strolls down the hall and silently leans himself against the threshold. He sips at his scotch and allows his attention to settle on the slope of Alec’s shoulders, the tilt of his head as he reads from one of Magnus’ tomes, the exacting twist of his fingers as his angel prepares ingredients for whatever purpose he’s decided on.

Something infinitely _warm_ and _sweet_ unfurls in Magnus’ chest at the unprecedented sight. He recalls how just last week Alexander had hesitantly asked permission to use the apothecary, even if Magnus was not there with him. And oh how quickly Magnus had given it. He had not said it at the time – and still some part of him is hesitant to even _think_ it – but in that moment Magnus had thought about how his angel came home to the loft after work and patrols far more than he stayed at the Institute; he had thought of the section of his walk-in closet that had been resolutely sectioned off for Alec’s clothes, and how the shadowhunter’s favorite blanket had taken up permanent residence on their bed, and even how Magnus had begun mentally referring to the bed as _their bed_.

But beyond all of that, Alec had asked for permission to use Magnus’ _apothecary_. A refuge and a sanctuary, the sanctified place where Magnus was most exposed, most vulnerable, most _himself_. Had anyone else asked, had any other living soul dared to intrude upon his haven, he would have kicked them flat out on their ass; his skin would have crawled with the very notion and he wouldn’t even have hidden the indignant fury such a question would have inspired.

And yet. With Alexander, it’s _different_. Somewhere along the line, everything that Magnus owns, everything that Magnus _is_ , somehow wound up belong to his darling nephilim just as much as it belonged to himself. His love, his devotion, his heart, his home, his magic. And, yes, even his _apothecary_. Magnus wants to offer all of it – all of the little pieces that make up himself – to this remarkable man he’s been so blessed to find and hold and love.

Even so, a deeply rooted part of Magnus had not expected Alec to actually _use_ the apothecary. For him to come home after such a horrifically terrible day, to be met with the sight of his beautiful Alexander staring down at the tabletop scale with that endearing look of concentration – furrowed brow, bitten lower lip, scrunched up nose – as he attempts to work his way through some potion. The tension abruptly bleeds out from Magnus’ body, leaving him glad for the extra support that the door’s threshold offers him. All at once, his damnable day has transformed into a blessed one. His eyes sting, whether from tears or an accidentally dropped glamor or both, Magnus doesn’t really know. He doesn’t really care, either.

He’s content to simply lounge there, at the edge of his own apothecary, and watch as his beloved putters around as if he belongs right at the epicenter of Magnus’ very being. Alec meticulously grinds up werewolf claws and ginseng root, measuring out amounts with an expression of concentration that is equal part amusing and endearing. It’s a quiet moment, one that doesn’t require words to communicate the soul-deep comfort that they both feel in each other’s company. Alexander hums to himself, a rare example of contentment from the often surly man, a facet to him that only Magnus has the absolute privilege to see.

It occurs to Magnus, abruptly and almost painfully with its full weight, that Alec would have made a _stunning_ warlock.

Of course, right at that moment, the bubbling concoction in the cauldron heaves out an almighty _hiss_ and fizzles right out of potency. Alec slumps and lets out an aggrieved sigh, even as Magnus is hiding a charmed grin behind his glass of scotch. Ah, the trials of potion-making. It isn’t nearly as cut and dry as people tend to think. Far too many variables at play, constantly making one’s success rate unbearably low.

Alexander turns and looks at Magnus then, not even seeming surprised to find the warlock watching him. Magnus knows better than to be disappointed at not getting the drop on Alec; shadowhunters are very nearly impossible to sneak up on, perhaps even _especially_ shadowhunter boyfriends who tinker in an apothecary on one of their rare days off.

“Having fun, darling?” Magnus hums, incapable of resisting the grin that pulls at the corners of his lips.

Alec smiles right back, even as a bashful blush is creeping up his neck. “Um, well, it would be a bit more fun if I could actually get something to work,” he admits, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck and wrinkling his nose at the cauldron.

Ever the dutiful and supportive boyfriend, Magnus pushes off of the threshold and saunters his way over to his magically-challenged angel. He pulls to a stop right behind Alexander, wrapping his free arm around the shadowhunter’s waist and propping his chin on the younger man’s shoulder, his whole body flush against the solid line of Alec’s back. His gaze idly wanders over the neatly organized piles of ingredients and tools that the nephilim has gathered before finally settling on the row of arrows lined up at the end of the desk. Half of the arrowheads seem to have been corroded or melted by what Magnus can only assume were failed attempts at whatever project Alec is so curiously attempting.

“And what, pray tell, is my gorgeous assistant up to?” he murmurs against the shell of Alec’s ear, delighting in the delectable shiver that it inspires in his precious angel.

Alec sighs, leaning more fully into Magnus’ weight, tilting his head back so that it rests against the warlock’s. “I’m trying to coat my arrowheads with a paralytic agent,” he explains, fingers tapping against the surface of the desk. “But all I’ve managed to do is melt half of my arrows,” he continues with a petulant little grumble.

Magnus reexamines the selected ingredients with a newly critical eye and identifies where he thinks Alexander has gone wrong. “I may be willing to provide some assistance,” he drawls with a purposefully haughty air. “For the right price, of course.”

“Of _course_ ,” Alec agrees, that beautiful and all-too-uncommon grin of his lighting up the room. “I’ll make those lemon bars you love so much,” he offers.

“I daresay you are encouraging my addiction to sweets.”

“So you finally admit it’s an addiction?”

Magnus tuts. “Do you want my help or not, Alexander?”

“Always,” the boy breathes, as if admitting it is the simplest thing in the world.

Maybe it is.

So Magnus drapes himself more comfortably against Alec’s back, murmuring out his suggestions and comments into the nephilim’s ear. He knows that his obtrusive position serves more as a distraction than any sort of support or encouragement, but his darling angel tosses an adoring look over his shoulder that Magnus is perfectly helpless to.

“You know,” Alexander starts once their potion is finally simmering in the cauldron, his tone deceptively casual. Magnus suspects _something_ , but he hums out a question regardless. “If you’re helping me, doesn’t that make you _my assistant?_ ”

Needless to say, Magnus gives him a swift pinch to the backside in retribution. “Nice try, my love. Maybe give it a few centuries and we’ll see who is assisting who.”

Alexander laughs, and it’s everything bright and beautiful in Magnus’ life.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this me subtly hinting at immortal husbands? YES.
> 
> Also, a bit of fun world-building headcanon I have: the reason Alec can mix any sort of potion is because many ingredients are actually inherently magically. There are plenty of other ingredients that need to be imbued with magic (something that only warlocks can do), but if someone is knowledgeable enough and they use the right ingredients, anyone can make low-level potions. Even a curious shadowhunter boyfriend.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed! Please leave me some kudos and comments!
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
